


Doctor in the House

by Luka



Series: University AU [10]
Category: Primeval
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, F/F, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 00:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19240159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luka/pseuds/Luka
Summary: It’s graduation ceremony day at CMU.





	Doctor in the House

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rain_sleet_snow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_sleet_snow/gifts).



> The story is set in the university AU universe where Lester is deputy vice-chancellor, Ryan the head of security, Lorraine an economics lecturer, Sarah an Egyptology PhD candidate, Jenny the university's PR guru and Claudia is head of Quality Assurance. Rain_sleet_snow created the universe, and Fredbassett very kindly let me borrow Ditzy (Dave). Davina Bowie is my OC. And the fic is for Rain_sleet_snow, who has graduated in style …
> 
> If you want to read Rain_sleet_snow's stories, she has them on her AO3 account under the Smart People series tag. To avoid confusion, I'm going to name my series as University AU. Original, or what! The stories are gen ones in a slash universe.

The sun shone and even the concrete jungle that was CMU looked halfway attractive, helped by the marquees and bunting strung around the campus to celebrate graduation. Graduands and their parents milled around, girls hobbling in skyscraper heels and boys fidgeting in suits and unaccustomed ties.

In the staff gowning area, there was a minor disturbance featuring mad Professor Cutter, who seemed to have lied about his height and hat size. His gown appeared to have been intended for someone 6ft 2”, and his mortarboard perched precariously on his untidy hair.

“Looks like a tom tit on a round of beef,” muttered Dave Owen.

The bloke from the gowning company, who rather resembled an undertaker, raised an eyebrow, which was probably as expressive as he ever got. He handed the professor another mortarboard, which promptly fell down over Cutter’s eyes.

“Looks like a bleedin’ wastepaper basket,” he opined in a broad east Lahnden accent.

The dreamy Stephen Hart went slightly pink around his perfect cheekbones. “I told him measuring his head with a bit of string and six-inch ruler wasn’t going to be very accurate …”

Cutter’s response was a flurry of rrrrrrrrs as he grumpily accepted a better-fitting gown and headgear and moved to one side where he could be heard making actionable comments about the dean, who had just appeared with his flunkeys and seemed to expect to queue-jump.

Lorraine managed to disguise a laugh as a cough, fumbling in her pocket for a tissue. She had a tiny handbag secreted under her gown, her one act of rebellion every year – she refused point-black to go anywhere without her keys and purse. The economics department administrator, who helped out with the graduation ceremony, had x-ray eyes when it came to inappropriate clothes and accessories, so Lorraine was on her guard.

With much chuntering and muttering, academic staff queued up, ready to process into the venue – the town racecourse, which backed onto the university and was the only venue big enough to host the event. They’d heard all the jokes several times about handicaps, riding for a fall and that the university should open a BA in Bookmaking. 

Lorraine saw Emily Merchant from History ahead, looking enviably elegant in gown and cap. She didn’t recognise which university it was from, but the only obvious ones were the London art colleges gowns which seemed to favour accident with six pots of paint designs.

“Have you placed your bet on the length of the chancellor’s speech and how many off-colour jokes he’ll tell?” asked Dave, appearing at her side.

Lorraine rolled her eyes. She didn’t approve of gambling, but she approved of the chancellor even less. He was a retired bishop who was left over from the old days of the university being a church teacher training college. This year, fortunately, was his final in the position, for which everyone present was offering up thanks to deities they didn’t particularly believe in.

At that moment the doors to the main hall opened and they heard the strains of an organ. Sadly, it was all pre-recorded, as no one had yet managed to work out a way to get the real McCoy into the notoriously inaccessible building. The straggling line of staff released a flurry of coughs, belches and farts, fiddled with their gowns and hats, and processed into the hall.

Staff seats were at the back of the stage. Lorraine’s fancy footwork had ensured she would get a front seat in that block. She didn’t want to miss a second of Sarah receiving her PhD. She was sitting in between Stephen and Dave, with Professor Cutter on the end of the row where he could stick his legs out and generally inconvenience people.

Lorraine wasn’t the slightest bit surprised to see James Lester at the head of the dignitaries’ procession with the chancellor and the university orator (a mellifluous-voiced Eng Lit professor with a fondness for the bottle). Presumably the vice-chancellor was off in Thailand, supposedly on a recruitment drive but more likely sunning himself on a beach or consorting with ladyboys, so the scurrilous rumours went.

James’s introduction was typically short and businesslike. The chancellor, who looked like he’d lunched well, burbled on for 22 minutes and 14 seconds, which included three dodgy Irish jokes, two sexist observations and an unfortunate comment about the Lady Mayor’s dress sense – she just happened to be sitting in front of him. Dave grinned wolfishly and muttered out of the side of his mouth that he’d gone for 22 minutes and 12 seconds in the sweepstake, and fully expected to clean up. To Dave’s left, scary Davina Bowie from Sport was remonstrating in sign language with two colleagues who’d been playing speech bingo, and had both crossed off ‘thick Paddy’ at the same moment, to muffled excitement.

Lorraine sneaked a quick look at the programme. The honorary degree was being awarded to some bloke she’d never heard of, but who appeared to be something to do with engineering. Fifteen minutes later, she knew more than she ever wanted to about pig farming, and Professor Gronow from Physics was snoring like a chainsaw about six inches from the back of her neck. At least it was the PhD students next. 

Sarah was sixth on the list and looked radiant. Lorraine was sure she was grinning inanely, but she really didn’t care. She was so proud of Sarah. The front row of staff applauded enthusiastically and were rewarded by a stumble – well, Sarah had insisted on wearing her one pair of heels – and a watermelon beam. Even Professor Cutter had stopped making notes on the back of his programme long enough to applaud.

“Can we go home now?” muttered Dave.

“Chin up,” said Lorraine encouragingly. “Most of the engineering undergrads are Chinese and have all gone home. And the foundation degrees and the HNDs never turn up.”

“You’d better be right. I’m desperate for a drink.”

Lorraine decided she was getting old, as all the undergrads looked the same – blonde girls with short dresses on and dark boys with slicked-back hair. And they definitely all merged into one as they processed across the stage. Proceedings were marginally enlivened by a busty red-headed geographer planting a smacking kiss on the bemused bishop’s face, and a Media Studies lad shambling on in jeans and teeshirt, and sporting a foot-high purple Mohican which nearly impaled the chancellor when he bent to shake his hand. 

The ever so slightly out of sync strains of the recorded organ marked the end of proceedings – accompanied by sighs of relief from the staff. Lorraine frowned; she was as bored as the next person, but she felt it important that they made the effort for the graduands and their parents.

Her attention was dragged back to muttering beside her. The staff had started to file off the stage, and Professor Cutter seemed to want the race the dean for the exit, but Stephen was holding him back, pointing out, sotto voce, that they didn’t want to look like a bad impression of a Batman movie. The no doubt unrepeatable reply contained, as ever, an improbable number of rolled rrrrrrrrrs.

By the time Lorraine and Dave had returned their gowns and reached the tent where severely watered-down Pimms and soggy crisps were being served, Professor Cutter had clearly downed several drinks and was looking around belligerently. 

“Oh gawd,” said Dave. “I wonder if we can persuade Stephen to take him home before it all kicks off into World War III.”

“What’s he so uppity about?” Lorraine smiled her thanks as she accepted a glass of Pimms from a Theology PhD candidate wearing what Lorraine’s grandmother would have termed a pelmet.

Dave rolled his eyes. “It’s Nick Cutter. Uppity’s his middle name. And I’ll wager that he’s got a strop on about the prize-giving. His star student’s probably lost out, and he’s taking it personally.”

Lorraine coughed discreetly. Now Dave came to mention it, the student who was runner-up to Sarah for the vice-chancellor’s award for excellence was one of Professor Cutter’s favoured few.

Sarah picked her way delicately across the grass, looking like a faintly awkward swan in her high heels. She was beaming widely and accepting kisses from all and sundry – including a faintly grudging Cutter, Lorraine noticed. But then Sarah could charm birds from the trees.

“Are you fit?” asked Sarah. That was their shorthand for ‘are you ready to go?’

“Whenever you’re ready. It’s your big day,” said Lorraine carefully.

“Claudia, Jenny, Niall and Stephen are going for tapas at that new place on the High Street, and want us to come. You and Hils will come, won’t you, Dave? And my feet are killing me.”

“I’m fit,” said Lorraine, decisively, thankful that Stephen had managed to offload Cutter for the occasion. The Professor wasn’t at his best on social occasions, and had caused them to leave several restaurants early.

“Me too,” said Dave, bestowing a smacking kiss on Sarah’s cheek. “I’ll go and roust Hils out of the stacks.”

She grinned, kicked off her shoes and linked arms with them. “I can see a glass of champagne with my name on it!”


End file.
